


Enough For Now

by SleepyBirbPrince



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Familiar Keith (Voltron), Familiars, Human Auction Trigger Warning, Kinda Slow Burn???, Klance Relationship Yo, Lance Is A Hermit, Lance Is Bad at being a Warlock, M/M, My Summary Is Shit And So Is My Social Life, Past Abuse trigger warning, Warlock Lance (Voltron), Warlocks, Warlocks/Witches AU, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyBirbPrince/pseuds/SleepyBirbPrince
Summary: Lance is a Warlock. And kind of a shitty Warlock at that.He's not the strongest, not the smartest, and certainly not the best magic conjurer around. In fact, Lance is pretty down and out, and he would be lying if he said it was easy.Yet, after a chance of fate, he meets a purple eyed familiar with a gaze made of stone, and Lance starts to think that maybe we can get the hang of this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Al I can say is that I'm Voltron trash and I've been meaning to make this for awhile, and October just seemed like a perfect time to post something with Warlocks and all that nonsense.
> 
> This is a Klance centric fic, so please don't read if that doesn't float your boat~
> 
> This will be a multi- chapter fic, but please be patient with this little college student. She is trying her hardest and probably crying a lot, but she writes through the tears for you guys :,)))
> 
> Enjoy! Review and Kudos if you like it and show me some love ;3;

Being a Warlock is _rough_.

For one, you have to keep your mouth shut.

Any and all abilities to perform your witchcraft, or need to soothe that ache for your morbid dabbling in dark magic, was held behind a zipped mouth.

"Hey! I can use sacrificed pigeon hearts to make a potion that'll guarantee to leave your hair soft and touchable. Isn't that cool?" It's not always a welcoming sentence to hear as the other party. Well, of course in the theory it sounds like something interesting, but realizing the deeper logistics that come with being a Warlock can make a person curl away in disgust.

Bad reps usually don't leave the best taste in ones mouth.

Two, there's the ever looming fact that you probably aren't the best Warlock around, and in order to make a living as one, it's not the easiest feat. You have your potion making skills, your spell pronunciation and memorization skills, and your battle skills.

Lance still makes better explosive bombs and spontaneously combusting concoctions than he does making potions. He still has a spell book attached to his hip to read when in need and he tends to stutter while in combat. And he doesn't have a good wand to fight with at the moment, the one he has now he got from a cheap flea market for Witches, and the girls giggled at him as he blushed while paying for it.

All in all, Lance was a poor sight as a Warlock, and an even poorer sight to someone who didn't understand the struggle of being a Warlock.

With his baggy green jacket that hung over his skinny hips and large grey shoes that were three sizes too big for his feet, he looked like the common college kid on a steady diet of ramen and an even steadier sleep deprived state. Hell, he didn't even have a place to his name. The doormat of someone's summer house was his home sweet home, and he was lucky if the weather didn't drop so low that he woke up with icicles poking out of his sniffly nostrils.

Last but not least, there was the strife of finding a good matched familiar.

Familiars were a Warlocks best friend.

You know, like the black cats that ride on a those cackling Witches brooms in the movies? Or the toads that change into people?

Yeah. Those were familiars.

They're made loyal, smart, good as weapons, good look outs, a good source of retrieval for things, and an especially good source of company. Being a Warlock gets lonely when you're spent alone and holed up somewhere conjuring stuff up.

Familiars came in the shapes and sizes of many things. From animals, to weapons, to people, to demons and mythical creatures, they were practically endless. Except for dumb things like lamps or tables. Lance is sure no one would want something inanimate for a familiar.

But. Lance didn't even have that either, one of the essentials to being a Warlock.

To sum things up, Lance sucked at it, and hated it, and he wishes this wasn't the path he had chosen.

He could of already been a Junior in college for medicine right now if he had followed the directions of his pleading mother and strict as a whip father, but he had turned his back to them as easily as one does to the blinding sun on a spring day.

He wanted this. Wanted the power to create, to destroy, to become powerful and strong just like his grandfather.

His pawpaw was prideful and big, and his portrait hung in their family hallway like some monument to a president, with its old oak frame and glass that always shined. Lance remembers his young self, with his crooked gaped teeth and sparkly wide eyes staring up at it, his heart racing and his palms clammy at the intense stare the man gave to him through the invisible barrier. Lance felt his presence like one feels a chill down their spine, and he knew then...

He wanted that. Wanted that strong gaze, that purposeful stance, that lifted chin and snarky smirk. He wanted to have a place right beside his grandfather in his families hall of fame, and he wanted to be remembered as the powerful Warlock son that made his mama smile and his dad proud.

With his face nuzzled against a barren, abandoned porch and his jacket slung over him and used as a blanket and a pillow each night, this was not his intentions or dreams. And he was certainly falling from the paved path that was his idea to success.

Yet, there was no way in hell he would crawl back to his family with the defeated look that could only come from a kid that believed he was independent enough before he was actually ready to handle the world outside his 18 years of paradise that was home.

He would rather take a ten pound bowling ball to the head.

Well, maybe to his chest. His face was too important to be maimed like that.

He could do it. He could prove himself.

He just needed time.

_And a familiar._

Lance threw his head back as he gulped mouthfuls of alcohol, teasing his burning throat and sighing as the last drop touched his tongue.

It had been awhile since he'd had a drink, and an even longer while since he's had enough money to even dream of getting one. He sets the empty cup down a little roughly, earning a few annoyed stares as he belches and smirks.

"Another one, if you could sweet thing~" He purrs at the bartender, wiggling his eyebrows and flicking the cup a few inches closer to her on the counter. The girl rolls her eyes and snatches it up quickly, turning her back to him with a flip of her ponytail and pacing over to the barrels to fill his cup.

Lance gets a good look at her from behind before he leans back in his bar stool, a content smile on his face and a drowsy look hazing his lidded eyes. You could say he was feeling pretty good about himself, selling some bartered goods he 'borrowed' in exchange for some nice cash to blow for the night. He was at his peak of feeling good.

He'd hate himself tomorrow, but when did he ever not when he was broke? Might as well enjoy his splendors now while he's got a few gold coins tinkling around in his pants and a happy, fat wallet settled in his coat pocket.

The resounding clack of the cup dropping down in front of him has his blue eyes slyly glimpsing at the copper liquid and then back up at a new bartender, her expression uninterested and bored. That doesn't stop Lance from saddling up to the challenge, propping his elbow up onto the wooden counter and leaning in close with a dimpled grin.

"I would ask to buy kiss, but I don't think I should be naming prices on someone as priceless looking as yourself." Lance hums, flashing his signature smile and doing that little eye flick from her waist back up to her eyes that girls seem to fawn over.

Sure enough, a pink tint warms her cheeks, and she looks away bashfully with a small lip bite that tells Lance he's probably got a chance to score tonight if he plays his cards right.

"Stay after and I might just give you something nice for free." She says as she turns on her heel with purposeful grace, winking at him over her shoulder even as her fellow bartenders give her narrowed eyed looks and a tandem of disapproving head shakes.

Lance always has all the right cards.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

His favorite thing about one night stands is definitely the free bed, access to a stocked fridge, and the satisfying feeling of leaving after a night of fun and being on his way.

He wakes up to a thin arm draped over his naked torso and a pair of smooth legs intertwined with his own, and he cringes as the smell of last nights randevú from the dirty sheets.

Ugh. Last nights headache is also thumping around his skull now, and he really hopes she has easily accessible Tylenol.

He blinks drearily against the sun rays through the window opposite of him, and glares menacingly at it, as if expecting it to shrink away in fear.

Who even leaves their curtains open before bed?

Oh geez. He hopes the neighbors hadn't seen anything from last night. That would mean awkward eye contact on his way out the door, and he would rather avoid that as best as he possibly could.

With little resistance, he peels himself away from the girl next to him, and only feels a tinge of guilt that he couldn't remember her name. He groans lowly under his breath as he runs a hand through his short hair, legs hanging over the side of the bed as he eyes his pile of crumbled clothing. As soon as he lifts up, a surge of nausea hits him, and he hisses as he reaches up to rub his aching temples.

He's gotta stop this. These migraines are getting harder to manage.

Lance stumbles to the restroom, yawning and scratching his side as he closes the door behind him and leans against the fancy marble counter, getting a nice view of himself in the mirror.

The first thing he notices is the bags under his eyes have diminished just a tad, and he's glad it's not marring his good complexion anymore. With naturally tanned skin that makes him look golden under the sun, and a face with just the lightest dusting of freckles across his button nose, he can admit he has a nice look to him. Sure his hair he cuts himself, and that usually makes it look a short, mangled mess, but he pulls it off with his signature dimpled smirk that takes all eyes off that monstrosity and back down to his glittering blue eyes and cocky expression. He's lanky, and not exactly a buff of a guy like a lot of male Warlocks are, but that's due to him not exactly having a familiar to combat anything with.

He typically doesn't get along with people for an extended amount of time, and a lot of the familiars he's chosen are snobby animals and weapons that mainly wanted to pick on him about his sweaty hands and his terrible foot placement while in combat. One even went as far to say he smelled worse than a wet dog.

It stung a little more, coming from a dog familiar.

He decided after the last one, a small dagger familiar that grew aggravated with being used for minuscule stuff on their days off, (which, being a lowly Warlock, was pretty often) like opening a bag of chips or being used to clean under his fingernails, that maybe he needed to find a way to get his jobs done without one.

After a hot shower, he gets dressed fairly quickly and quietly, (after years of practice this becomes a second nature) in his signature blue sleeved tee and light blue skinny jeans. He rummages around, looking for his other sock, and curses when he can't find it, instead settling on stealing one of her pink ones and hoping into his sneakers.

He sneakily slips through the bedroom door and heads towards the kitchen, admiring the large and spacious house as he strolls down the staircase. He would kill to have a place like this.

He could close his eyes and picture himself dressed in a devilishly handsome tux, a bow tie on his neck and a pretty girl tucked under his arm as he slowly made his way down the winding marble steps. He could imagine the gentle clinking of champagne glasses and the quiet laughs and casual banter between the guests before all grew hushed at the sight of him, Lance McClain, most renowned and formidable Warlock for miles, sauntering down his staircase with elegance. His hair would be slicked back, his smile would be genuine, and he'd be prepared to entertain with his words and his mastery of the dark arts, performed for everyone with all those adoring eyes on him.

Yes. He could see it now. The music, the ambiance, the people, it would be perfect, magical, amazing-

A loud crash and boom followed by several angry male voices yelling has Lance torn from his fantasy and his foot slipping. He collapses face first down the last two steps, his cheek taking the brunt of the ground as he connects with a thud and a yelp.

"Owww... What the hell?!" He fusses as he gets to his knees, gingerly poking his bruised face before glaring out the front window in the direction the sound came from. Large bushes block his view, so he stands, brushing himself off despite the house being pristine, and marches to the front door with purposeful strides.

As soon as he swings it open, he's greeted by the sight of a cart stacked high with weapons, tipped to the side with a flat wheel in the back. Several swords, shields, knives, and arrows are strewn about the earth as men try desperately to collect them up and toss them back on the cart.

Lances eyebrow quirks with curiosity when a certain weapon catches his eye, a red sword, and he watches as its flung haphazardly onto the top, glinting in the sunlight. His eyes trail it for a bit before looking back to the men fixing a spare wheel back onto the rod.

Maybe this is the break for a new weapon that he needs?

Who needs a familiar when he just had a badass sword clipped to his side?

His heart swells along with the grin on his face, and his headache is forgotten as he closes the door behind him and sprints up to them.

"Hey! Excuse me!" Lance calls out to the driver who's leaned back against the front, his hat tipped and his teeth gnawing on a toothpick as he looks up. Lance slows to a halt in front of him, and smiles, but his grin does little to effect the annoyed look on the others face. Lance notices how sleazy the man looked, and how his eyes glittered with a maliciousness that matched the large carving knife hanging off his belt.

"Hi! My names Lance McClain. Warlock. Uhm. Well. More like a Warlock in training? Im still a little rusty right now, but give it a year or so and I think-"

"Never heard of ya. Now what do you want kid, a prize? I don't get payed to sit around and listen to people babble about their life. I get paid to get shit where it's going. If you have somethin' on here in mind, or that you think belongs to you, then you can follow us and take it up with auction house down the road. Now please step aside, my men have our wheel fixed and we'd like to get going before the snow hits this afternoon. He says dryly before jumping back into the car that's hauling the weapons, his eyes never once acknowledging Lance as he starts the engine up and steers away, the men behind him jumping up to hang off the cart sides as it rumbles forward, leaving clouds of dust in its wake and surrounding Lance as he stares forward at the little weapon laying at the very top of the stack.

Looks like he was going to miss breakfast.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Lance really wished he would of just slept in longer.

The bustling and burning of bodies surrounds him and he can smell the individual sweat and breath of each person crowded and squirming around him. He grimaces, and earns several sneers from large, burly looking men that shove past him to the front.

Holy damn he doesn't belong in a place like these.

Over to his right he hears a fight breaking loose and people cheering the violence on while to his left the heady clouds of drugs being smoked makes his eyes water and his lungs squeeze. He hears a woman smack a man for grabbing at her naked chest and hears an older woman threatening to cut out someone's eyes if they ever reach for her wallet ever again.

That reminds Lance of his money, and he reaches up to clutch at it protectively through his breast pocket while his eyes look around his surroundings like a cornered animal.

Maybe he should go?

Does he value seeing what all the commotion is about for a cart full of measly weapons when he could be off on his way to a new town and maybe even get lucky enough to find another bar with another cute bartender?

Before he can even begin to contemplate further, he feels a gentle nudge at his side and looks down to see a shockingly short person with a mess of orange hair atop their head. Large circle framed glasses rest on their nose, and their lips peel apart to reveal a smile that almost resembled a sneer. Lance is about to question them on why they approached when their hand shoots out suddenly, making him jump back a couple feet with a yelp and knock into a couple people who scoff and shove him back forcefully.

The smaller laughs loudly, and Lance grows flustered when several eyes land on the two of them, realizing the other was just asking for a handshake, and not about to shank him like he had believed.

"You aren't from around here are you?" The mysterious person asks, and Lance can't help but glare and rub at the back of his neck as his face scorches.

"I might be, I might not. What's it to you?"

"Nothing. Just that you seem really out of place here. I thought you were gonna get crushed coming through the door. Not to mention you look like you're about to jump out of your skin every time someone talks or moves. Your body language screams 'This is not my kinda dealio'. Just saying." They jeer, and Lance huffs.

"I'm perfectly comfortable. Not a bone in my body doesn't belong here-" Lance plays it off, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the other over his nose sardonically. "I'll have you know I was raised in this place from a young age. No mom, no dad. Just a hard ass kid that got things done through the sheer power that growing up on these hard streets do to you. Ya get me?"

The other gives him a disbelieving stare, and Lances facade slips with his shoulders as slumps forward a little with a heavy sigh.

"Fine... Yeah, I'm new here alright? Stop rubbing it in you little gremlin... I came from the nicer area from New York. This place is a 'bit' out of my comfort zone."

"A _'bit'_?"

"Okay, okay... A lot."

"Knew it."

"Was it really that hard to know?"

"No. But I just felt like rubbing a little salt into the wound."

"Heh, figures. You look like the type."

"The names Pidge. Pidge Gunserson. I'm here waiting for a friend. What about yourself?" Lance blinks and stares down at an extended hand, the other, Pidge, warmly smiling. Lance hesitantly takes it, shaking it curtly. Just cause he knows it's a handshake now doesn't mean he trusts this person, along with all the other dirtbag people surrounding him.

"I'm Lance. Lance McClain. I... I'm actually not entirely sure on why I'm here." Lance admits shyly, and receives an odd, cocked headed look from the other.

"So... What? You just wandered blindly into this cesspool by yourself for no reason?"

Lance bites the inside of his cheek. When you put it like that, of course he sounds like an idiot. He opens his mouth to contradict them, and spills out his reason with a bite to his tone.

"I'm not a dumbass, thank you very much. I came here for a weapon I saw on a cart this morning." He says in a matter- of- fact tone, his arms crossing over his chest with an annoyed air. Pidge's eyes grow a tad wider at that, and Lance swears he can see his reflection in the others intense stare.

"Wait... You're here for the auction?"

Before Lance can even question what the look was for, the loud boom of the speaker overhead caught everyone's attention and drowned out the conversations around them. A man dressed nicely despite the gutter like surroundings, steps onto the stage, his beady eyes looking over the crowd as he takes the microphone into hand.

"Goooooooood afternoon ladies and gents! It seems as though we've drawn in quite the crowd. I see old faces, new faces, and all the faces inbetween! I'm excited to get this show on the road. So let's start it off with saying a big thank you for all the followers we've gained, and how we're excited to announce that we'll be giving out our best offers for today!  
Weapons first, then the beasts. Now, even though these may be the less admirable bunch, I can assure you that they're all manageable with the right amount of reinforcement. Lay a hand on them if you have to! It's a simple fix really.  
Come up to pay as soon as your bet has been counted as the highest and you can be on your way after bonding. So please, no rough housing or talking during the auctioning times and be sure to raise your hand each time you want to raise the stakes with your money or make a bet. We'll be going up by 100's. Now. Let's get this thing moving shall we?"

Reinforcement? What does he mean by reinforcing weapons?

That was all the warning he received before the sounds of chains beating against wood brought his attention to the back of the stage, and his heart seized when he saw several people dressed in raggedy clothing walking up the steps, their faces forlorn and bruises and welts dotting their skin as they make way to the front. He sees several shaking as they look over the crowd, while the others would rather keep their heads bowed in shame. They look pathetic and malnourished, and their eyes are glazed with a dark, defeated look. The chains at their feet look heavy as they're clamped around every ankle, the skin rubbed raw from the large shackles, preventing them from darting away. They're all forced to stand in a line formation before the people, and Lance feels bile tickling at his throat.

"What... What is this-" He turns back to Pidge only to find them gone, the space next to him now occupied by a large man with hungry eyes on the stage.

Lance is sick. This isn't what he came here for. He came here to see about getting himself a sword.

Not to see these people be auctioned off like cattle.

"Now! Do us all a favor my little dumplings, and show us your other form!" The finely dressed man, who could possibly be the devil, exclaims with a snap of his fingers. And just like that the group of five flicker into a ball of light and clatter to the ground in the forms of weapons, the shackles growing or narrowing to accommodate the new form.  
A shield, two bows, a gauntlet, and a hatchet now lay before the crowd, and everyone goes wild. Hands begin to raise as the announcer points to the hatchet, and Lances stomach flips as his eyes widen.

This isn't for people. It's for familiars.

The announcer snaps his fingers again and asks for their original forms, and they all burst back into people, their faces still shaky and unreadable. A hand to his right is raised, followed by several whoops and hollers as the man at the microphone begins to speak in barely comprehensible English, tapping on his podium as he now points to a blonde haired girl with shimmery green eyes at the front right.

"SOLD. To this man at the front, please come up and claim your familiar." The announcer says, and Lance watches as he makes an X formation with two fingers and breaks his own bond with the familiar, leaving her free for just a split second before the man gives the cash to him and forms his own bond in a flare of purple light and swirling air. The tattoo forms on her upper arm, his tattoo, and just like that she belongs to him. Her shoulders slump, and her body looks limp and dead as he grabs her and hauls her off stage as many of the bystanders laugh and cheer as well.

Lance had heard about places like this. Terrible, terrible places like this.

But damn it all he didn't actually believe he'd ever be at one.

He watches as they tick off one by one, traded out like cigarettes for money and disappearing into the crowd without a trace, leaving an even more ill feeling in his gut after each one.

"Tch. These are worthless. I bet they're as powerful as the dirt underneath my boot. Only thing these shits would be good for is gettin me a drink from the fridge or making a nice mantelpiece above my fireplace." The man in front of him slurs drunkenly, tossing his can into the stage and cackling as several jump away in fear. No one does anything but laugh as well, even the announcer, and that was around the time Lance decided enough was enough.

He turns on his heel, his hands shaking and his gut wrenching as he begins to push past the people on his way out. He can't stand here and listen to this, it's too revolting, and the more he does, the more he wants to do something.

"Alright folks, now for the next five. Let's rooooollllllll them on out people!"

Lance feels his feet pause by the entrance, his fists clenching and his teeth gritting as he squeezes his eyes closed. He doesn't want to turn around, doesn't want to look anymore, but the measured thuds and drags of feet entice him to turn around.

_Don't. Don't do it Lance._

_Don't turn around._

_You can just walk away._

_You don't need to see this._

_You can leave and not even bother yourself further._

Before he knows it, his feet are growing a mind of their own and turning him around, the dimly lit stage shadowing over his features grimly as he peers up from the very back of the mass of people to see five new familiars now on the stage.

"Now! Let's take a look at the dangerous little devils other form." Chuckles the announcer as he raises his hand and makes a resounding snap.

All the them twist into the air, their forms bending and transforming into new weapons as a white light surrounds them, and Lance watches them fall to the ground with muted sounds.

And that's when he sees it.

The first one, the one laying slightly askew to the right.

The sword.

His heart shutters at the beautiful crimson color underneath the large spotlights. It's blade a daringly sharp tip, and several scratches line it's frame from what looks like many battles. It's handle looks tough, and Lance can already imagine his hand gripped around it and poised to fight.

Lance shakes his head, pulling him from his reverie when he hears a wave of exclamations and yells filling the room, the tension zipping through the air and making Lances hair stand on end as the smiling announcer snaps his fingers again and the group return back to human.

Then Lance sees _him_.

The sword familiar stands tall unlike the others who slump and cower, his posture showing off his muscled chest, and his defined jaw locks as he eyes the people beneath him with a cold stare.

His eyes are a deep purple like color, and appear warm and inviting despite the frigid gaze he's emitting. They peek out from beneath the mussed state of his raven black hair, tied back into a small ponytail behind his head, and Lance feels a sudden urge to have those cold eyes meet his own. But damn, if looks could kill, Lance would of already been six feet under the dirt.

He looks like he's been worked over, with a thin shirt and shorts, his feet bare, you could easily make out the blossoming purple and browns of bruises and cuts on his pale skin, and he looks more worked over than the rest. Like he isn't good at listening, and his caretakers aren't good at patience. Lance wants to do something, wants to help fix him, but he sure as hell doesn't give off the impression that fixing is what he wants.

The difference between him from the others, is he doesn't look broken.

"Alright. Now to our number 1. Do I have any starter bids?"

Several hands jolt into the air, waving around wildly to gain attention as the man begins to count and tack off the money each one brings to the front. Lance watches as the familiar now looks away, his lilac eyes staring into the distance directly above Lance's head.

700

800

900

The numbers are shouted like mantras from the crowd, and Lance feels a burning in his core at the sight of a light haired man eyeing the familiar like a piece of meat and raising his hand.

1000

1100

Lances fists clench white knuckled at his sides, and he feels an urge tickling at his brain and begging for release. His lip worries itself between his teeth as he stares at the stage.

1800

_Don't do it Lance._

1900

_Don't you dare do it Lance._

2000

"Going once! Going twice-" The announcer exclaims, his hand hovering over his podium where he'll smack against it to declare the winner. Lance sees it all in slow motion as his heart seizes. He doesn't even see the buyer, doesn't see the crowd or the announcer or the other familiars-

_He only sees the one._

Lance raises his hand.

"2100! Once, twice... Sold! To the man in the back! Come up and claim your prize young Warlock, you've just earned yourself the highest gross pay tonight and a feisty familiar! Don't be shy now, come on up!"

Lances feet feel like their hovering as he glides up to the front, eyes on him as he stares forward while the crowd parts for him. He feels the gazes like hot daggers in his back, and no one cheers or hollers as he walks up the creaky steps to the first familiar, with his small ponytail and flashing eyes.

Now that those suspiciously narrowed eyes are on him, he suddenly isn't sure if acknowledgment from the familiar is exactly what he wants.

Lance swallows heavily as he walks over to the announcer and pulls out his wallet, dropping down 2100 dollars, realizing he had just enough.

Lance now has 4 dollars to his name, excluding a few dimes and what looks like a piece of gum. Other than that, his wallet is an empty, dismal pit, just like what his stomach feels like while staring at the lack of money. There goes the plan of heading to another bar and meeting another cute bartender.

The announcer must of seen this, as he swipes up the cash fast, probably afraid Lance was about to change his mind, and waves him goodbye as he begins to talk happily into his mic, his voice booming around Lance now that he was so close.

Despite the scream of the speakers and the calls of the crowd, he hears nothing as he eyes the boy in front of him, a few inches shorter than him but built much more sturdy than Lances toothpick form.

He watches the announcer break his bond with him, those purple eyes hazing and his teeth gritting in pain as he lifts a few feet off the ground and goes stiff, his body looking like he was being electrocuted, before the invisible force seems to let him go. He stumbles forward, and catches himself on his knees, his head still lowered, as if he couldn't bear to see Lance much longer.

Lance feels dirty as he draws his bonding shape in the air, his fingers tracing what looked like a snake before zipping diagonally and twisting upside down, the area around him turning a dark shade of blue and churning up the dead leaves beneath their feet. The familiars head lifts then, the mark flying through the air and pressing like a brand into his collarbone. His eyes flash an iridescent color before fading back to normal, and he blinks a few times as he stares up at Lance with an apprehensive expression. With the air around them returning to normal except for the left over color wafting around both of them like smoke, it doesn't appear as if anything important had even occurred.

They both touch back down to earth, and Lance feels a new weight settle in his chest. It thrums like a trapped bird, and he reaches up to touch his shaky palm over it.

The familiars conscience and being thrive inside of him, and he feels the overwhelming sensation of having the life of someone else inside of his body.

He can feel his emotions. His anger, his fear, his longing, his remorse. He can hear just the whispers of his thoughts in his ears, can feel his eyes on him and the blooming dark emotion that comes from that.

He can hear his name being breathed into his ear quietly, and his own lungs refuse air.

_Keith._

_Keith Keith Keith._

_KeithKeithKeithKeithKeith._

His name is _Keith_ Kogane.

And he is most certainly not happy with the new arrangement.

Lance doesn't even need to be attached to him through body and soul to know that.

Those fiery irises are enough indication for that, and he feels them more than he feels all the hundreds of other eyes on him as he exits the back of the stage. With his brain muddled and a headache on the verge of becoming a migraine, he can already tell this was a bad idea.

_Way to go, Lance._

_Way to go._

They walk the rest of the way in silence, Keith's head bowed and his arms limp in front of him due to the chains still fastened over his wrists. Lights are all out through the main square, and sidewalk lamps illuminate their path as the quiet scuffles and pounds of their feet on the gravel are the only sounds in the area. Neither of them speak, and Lance continues to mull and beat himself up for all of this.

What was he thinking? He can't afford to take care of a familiar. He can barely take care of himself! He's never had a guy familiar either, they've all been females, and Lance doesn't exactly get along often with the same gender. In school he was bullied for his awkward stature and his enjoyment of the magical arts, and even now he still receives a few jabs every once and awhile.

Yet, now as he walks with Keith, the one who's name he had stolen from their connection and not even heard from the character himself, he can't help but feel the awkward quiet that made his toes curl and his shoulders tense. He wants to start a conversation, something light and easy, but how do you do that with someone who's just been sold to you? Who you own, not through mutual choice? Who knows what he's been through with his multiple injuries and his dark look.

Lance doesn't know if he wants to find out.

Lance stops in the middle of the walkway, and Keith stops just behind him, his head still down and his arms still limp. Lance wishes he would make eye contact so he could show him a kind smile, but he settled with whatever Keith finds comfortable instead.

"Hi Keith... My name is Lance, Lance McClain... I'm uhm... I'm sorry this happened to you... And I... I want to make it better, alright? I'm going to take these chains off, but no running. I want us to talk for a bit, and I want to understand you better. So if you could- There."

Lance unclips the handcuffs and let's them fall to the cement with soft clinks, freeing Keith's hands. Lance watches, intrigued as Keith's eyes widen at the gesture and rubs at his red wrists. The ponytailed boy shifts on his feet, looking still unsure of the situation, and Lance smiles sweetly at him, stepping just the slightest bit forward.

Keith's face was beautiful, and that was the first thing that came to Lances mind and had him stopping in his tracks.

He had a pair of high cheek bones, and his lips were so plush and pink that they looked almost feminine. He had slightly slanted eyes, and his eyebrows were bushy, but Lance felt they added character. His skin was pale, and tapered black bangs framed the sides of his face. It almost looked like he had a messy mullet. Lances eyes noticed just the barest hint of freckles dotting over his long nose, and he had the sudden urge to get closer and count them.

So he did. He inched closer, his heart racing and he could see Keith's eyes widening even further as Lance moved in. He eyed the way Keith's adam's apple bobbed, and how his lips parted just enough to show a hint of white teeth, and suddenly Lance had forgotten what he was there to do.

The freckles. That's what he was doing. Counting freckles, yeah...

Lance reaches up to unconsciously cup the side of Keith's jaw, and his fingers savor the smooth glide of skin as he swipes his thumb just beside the corner of his mouth. Keith visibly goes taut, but Lance is too caught up in noticing the smaller things on Keith's face that were almost barely noticeable from a foot away. Like the jagged scar over his top lip, or the long eyelashes that flutter and twitch with his eyelids as he looks over Lance's face as well.

Lance feels a burst of _red_ in his chest, and he freezes at the hot that follows with it, then comes the refreshing cool of _blue_ and the warning _yellow_ , and Lance feels dizzy as he sees Keith close his eyes. Keith's emotions are going haywire, and Lance can feel every passing one as he stares at the other.

"It's okay... It's ok-"

Before he can even finish his comforting sentence as he ducked down to touch their foreheads together, he feels a sharp connection of knuckles right beneath the right side of his face, and that's about all he remembers before he smacks down onto the ground out cold.

_So much for counting those freckles..._


End file.
